The 

Quarterly  Notebook 

EDITED  BY  ALFRED  FOWLER 


June 


1916 


The  Art  of  John  Masefeld  .      .      .  W.  G.  BLAIKIE-MURDOCH 

Awoi  No  Uye EZRA  POUND 

The  Man  Who  Saved  Stevenson      .     .      .      .     N.  TOURNEUR 

CORRESPONDENCE: 

Walter  Savage  Lander,  Eli%a  Lynn  Linton,  and  Julia  Landorj 
Gifts  to  Institutions}  " German  Propaganda  in  the  United  States." 


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JOHN  MASEFIELD 

William  Strang  appearing 
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From  the  portrait  by  William  Strang  appearing  in  Philip  the  King. 

rk, 


Re- 


The  Quarterly  Notebook 

VOLUME  I  JUNE,  1916  NUMBER  i 


THE  ART  OF  JOHN  MASEFIELD 

By  W.  G.  BLAIKIE-MURDOCH 

Waiving  the  men  of  the  popular  school,  there  are  few 
English  writers  to-day,  of  the  younger  generation,  enjoying  a 
wider  fame  than  Mr.  John  Masefield.  Indeed  his  verse  has 
won  a  more  general  homage,  probably,  than  has  been  ac 
corded  to  any  poet  since  the  time,  fifteen  or  twenty  years  ago, 
when  enthusiasm  was  elicited  by  Mr.  Stephen  Phillips.  And 
notwithstanding  her  proverbial  love  of  reticence — that  love 
which  long  inhibited  the  staging,  in  London,  of  Maeterlinck's 
Monna  fanna,  likewise  begetting  a  harvest  of  wrath  for 
Swinburne  and  Rossetti — England  has  even  pardoned  the  in 
delicacy,  if  not  coarseness,  frequent  in  her  new  idol's  work;  or, 
at  least,  she  has  said  next  to  nothing  against  it.  That  ready  par 
don,  no  doubt,  is  not  really  difficult  to  account  for,  inasmuch 
as  this  element  in  the  author  has  nothing  of  the  character, 
usually  described  as  French,  which  is  so  hateful  to  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  race;  while  as  far  is  it  from  reflecting  morbidity,  ap 
pearing  rather  to  be  just  the  overflowing  of  a  somewhat  bucolic 
temperament,  a  thing  singularly  dear  to  normal  Englishmen. 
But  Mr.  Masefield' s  almost  worldwide  reputation  as  a  great 
master  —  is  this  justified  by  the  presence  of  truly  fine  qualities 
in  his  already  voluminous  output? 

It  is  a  very  varied  output,  too.  For  if  it  is  by  his  narrative 
and  lyrical  poems,  his  plays  and  novels,  that  Mr.  Masefield 
has  chiefly  gamed  his  laurels,  there  stand  to  his  credit  also  two 
little  books  of  prose  sketches,  a  slim  volume  of  reminiscences 
of  Synge,  and  a  portly  history  of  the  doings  of  the  early  adven 
turers  in  South  America;  while  he  has  contributed  editorial 


4  THE  QUARTERLY  NOTEBOOK 

matter  to  several  classics,  having  written  besides  a  study  of 
Shakespeare.  These  critical  writings  are  scarcely  remarkable, 
being  neither  much  better  nor  worse  than  most  analogous 
things  by  other  men.  But,  throughout  the  rest  of  the  author's 
work,  there  is  found  a  curiously  pronounced  chiaroscuro,  as  it 
were,  strength  and  weakness  being  juxtaposed  here  to  a  sig 
nally  striking  degree.  On  the  one  hand,  Mr.  Masefield  is 
that  very  rare  person,  a  brilliant  teller  of  tales,  ever  unfolding 
them,  whether  in  verse  or  prose,  with  a  splendid  verve;  while, 
on  the  other  hand,  he  displays  a  distinct  lack  of  a  passion  for 
form. 

Mr.  Masefield  has  been  much  extolled  for  his  realism,  the 
convincing  vividness  of  some  of  his  scenes  —  for  instance, 
those  in  Dauber  where  the  rounding  of  Cape  Horn  is  de 
scribed — while  he  has  been  applauded  as  keenly  for  the 
apparent  ease  with  which  he  does  everything.  In  all  art, 
however,  realism,  the  transcription  of  life,  is  only  a  stepping- 
stone  towards  a  goal  —  the  creation  of  beauty;  and  the  true 
master  is  perhaps  best  defined  as  the  man  who,  abnormally 
perceptive  of  the  difference  between  a  tub  and  a  Grecian  urn? 
triumphantly  evolves  the  latter  from  the  former.  To  do  this — 
to  take  a  part  of  life,  the  tub,  and  shape  it  into  something 
beautiful,  the  Grecian  urn — he  brings  his  sense  for  form;  and 
to  show  a  callousness  towards  this  last,  to  suggest  content 
ment  with  mere  realism,  is  among  the  gravest  of  limitations. 
Echoing  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  Whistler  has  deified  those 
works  which,  like  Mr.  Masefield' s,  seem  to  have  been  made 
quite  easily:  those  from  which  "all  signs  of  the  means  used 
to  bring  about  the  end  have  disappeared. ' '  But,  then,  it  must 
be  remembered,  the  disclosing  of  signs  of  labour,  and  the 
adumbration  of  a  passionate  searching  for  beauty,  are  two  dis 
tinctly  different  things.  Setting  aside  completely  the  kind  of 
men  generally  known  as  "classicists" — Bach,  for  example, 
in  music,  Ingres  in  painting,  Gray  in  literature,  their  respec- 


THE  ART  OF  JOHN   MASEFIELD  5 

tive  works  often  engaging  largely  by  mere  fineness  of  form — 
the  indication  of  a  strenuous  preoccupation  with  artistry  is 
salient  in  most  of  the  greatest  masters.  Its  presence,  in  Ve 
lasquez,  is  one  of  the  very  things  setting  him  above  Hals, 
whose  pictures  never  hint  markedly  at  artistic  aspiration; 
while  the  mighty  Greek  sculptors  tower  head  and  shoulders 
above  Rodin,  by  no  means  because  they  appear  to  have 
gained  their  effefts  more  easily  than  he,  but  because  they  sig 
nify  a  more  fervent  ardour  in  questing  for  these  effefts.  How 
readily,  too,  comes  to  mind  the  thought  of  Virgil  or  Catullus, 
Tennyson  'or  Keats,  dreaming  with  a  parent's  fondness  of 
some  cadence  lately  achieved,  pondering  endlessly  on  the 
intrinsic  loveliness  of  this  child  of  his  creation;  whereas  it  is 
hard,  if  not  impossible,  to  imagine  Mr.  Masefield  engaged  in 
that  way.  And  like  Moore  and  Rogers  in  the  field  of  verse, 
Borrow  and  Trollope  in  that  of  prose,  he  seems  content  to  tell 
his  tale,  taking  no  artist's  pride  the  while  in  his  manner  of  tell 
ing.  It  is  felt  that  the  writer,  being  unaccustomed  to  finding 
himself  confronted  with  technical  difficulty — that  most  bracing 
of  influences,  which  did  so  much  for  Walter  Pater  —  seldom 
or  never  pauses  to  weigh  what  he  has  wrought,  the  mere  faft 
that  a  thing  has  been  done  easily  being  inimical,  in  large 
measure,  to  its  doing  being  followed  by  the  act  of  ruthless 
criticism. 

Nor  are  these  strictures  based  on  isolated  passages  in  the 
author's  work,  instead  of  on  the  general  impression  received 
from  it.  Henley  once  wrote  an  apotheosis  of  Byron,  wherein, 
taking  his  hero's  strongest  passages,  and  setting  them  beside 
Tennyson's  weakest,  he  showed  conclusively,  to  his  own  sat 
isfaction  at  all  events,  that  Byron  is  a  much  grander  poet  than 
Tennyson.  Now,  by  this  method,  it  were  easy  to  heap  scorn 
on  virtually  the  whole  of  the  world's  greatest  singers;  for  there 
are  few  of  these  but  have  written  certain  ludicrously  bad  lines 
or  verses,  Tennyson  being  one  who  sinks  particularly  low,  as 


6  THE   QUARTERLY  NOTEBOOK 

also  do  Wordsworth  and  Shelley.  Nevertheless,  with  this 
trio,  the  flaws  are  easily  forgiven  or  forgotten,  contributing 
scarcely  at  all  to  forming  the  main  contours  of  the  remem 
brance,  carried  away  after  reading  any  one  of  the  three  poets. 
But,  on  the  contrary,  just  as  Rossetti's  feeble  draughtsmanship 
colours  the  souvenir  retained  in  the  mind  after  seeing  his  pic 
tures, — exquisite  as  they  are  hi  endless  ways, —  so,  too,  Mr. 
Masefield's  weaknesses  are  prone  to  linger  in  the  memory  as 
persistently  as  his  merits.  It  is  maintained  by  some  of  his 
journalistic  eulogists,  whose  facile  comments  are  duly  printed 
as  addenda  to  his  books,  that  he  has  often  triumphed  just  where 
Stevenson  failed  conspicuously.  Only,  has  he  not  failed  too, 
just  where  Stevenson  repeatedly  triumphed  ?  both  having 
written  things  in  which  the  evoking  of  a  given  atmosphere  is 
reasonably  and  naturally  looked  for,  almost  as  an  essential 
quality,  and  Stevenson's  craft  therein  far  transcending  Mr. 
Masefield's.  Even  to  people  who  are  personally  unacquainted 
with  the  Scottish  Highlands  and  Hebrides,  their  peculiar 
glamour  is  an  actuality,  with  such  great  ability  is  it  marshalled 
in  Kidnapped,  clinging  to  the  story  like  a  perfume;  while  in 
Catriona  every  page  is  charged  unmistakably  with  a  savour  of 
the  eighteenth  century,  readers  being  forced  to  feel  themselves 
indeed  living  in  that  period.  How  little  sense  of  Japan,  how 
ever,  dwells  in  Mr.  Masefield's  tragedy,  The  Faithful  \  how 
little  sense  of  the  seventeenth  century  in  Captain  Margaret  \ 
while  in  that  novel,  as  in  the  far  better  one,  The  Street  of  To 
day,  the  characters  act  with  a  flagrant  inconsistency,  which, 
quite  possibly  having  precedents  in  life,  is  withal  distinctly 
gauche  in  literature.  In  the  case  of  either  book,  it  tends  to 
inhibit  the  unfolding  of  events  from  having  that  semblance  of 
inevitability  which,  in  all  the  best  fiftion,  is  a  prominent 
characteristic.  It  suggests  a  want  of  premeditation  on  the 
novelist's  part:  in  fine,  a  lack  of  that  passion  for  form  whereby 
alone  the  tub  can  be  transformed  into  a  Grecian  urn. 


THE  ART  OF  JOHN  MASEFIELD  7 

But  to  repeat,  Mr.  Masefield's  work  presents  a  chiaro 
scuro  ;  and  if  one  side  of  his  penumbra  is  very  dark,  the  other 
is  very  bright.  He  illustrates  one  of  the  soundest  of  outstand 
ing  tendencies  among  the  better  writers  of  to-day,  in  that  he 
has  set  his  face  resolutely  against  the  ornate,  the  pompous;  he 
has  stood  for  the  splendid  qualities  of  straightforwardness,  of 
simplicity.  And  he  has  compassed  what  is  perennially  among 
the  hardest  of  feats  —  one  of  those  mainly  necessitating  real 
originality,  and  sturdy  intellectual  independence  —  making  an 
art  out  of  matter  little  handled  by  earlier  men,  in  particular 
the  broad,  grim  humour  of  the  common  British  sailor.  When 
he  writes  autobiographical  prose,  as  in  places  in  A  Tarpaulin 
Muster ,  one  of  the  finest  of  all  his  books,  he  does  not  merely 
recount  his  emotions,  but  communicates  them,  makes  them 
infectious,  the  feeling  being  received,  furthermore,  that  these 
emotions  have  suffered  no  cooling  in  their  transmission  to  the 
page.  Several  of  the  people  in  his  novels  are  grandly  vitalised, 
notably  Stukeley  in  Captain  Margaret,  who  provokes  fully 
the  aversion  that  an  aftual  person  of  his  nature  would  provoke; 
while  sympathy  cannot  be  withheld  from  Rhoda  and  Hesel- 
tine  in  The  Street  of  To-day,  a  novel  which  Balzac  himself 
would  surely  have  admired  much.  For  Balzac  exalted  the 
faculty  of  observation,  rightly  hailing  it  as  one  of  the  prime 
and  positive  constituents  of  genius;  and  this  capacity  is  mir 
rored  an  hundredfold  in  Mr.  Masefield's  book,  much  of  this 
subtle  and  critical  observing  being  set  forth,  moreover,  in  a 
rarely  crisp,  epigrammatic  fashion.  The  writer  has  a  key, 
however,  admitting  to  loftier  styles  than  that;  and,  in  the 
closing  passage  of  The  Eternal  Mercy,  there  are  clear,  silvery 
notes,  like  those  of  a  piccolo;  while  now  and  then  he  will  write 
a  haunting  measure,  as  in  the  song  in  The  Faithful  which  be 
gins: 

Sometimes,  when  guests  have  gone,  the  host  remembers 

Sweet  courteous  things  unsaid; 


8  THE  QUARTERLY  NOTEBOOK 

or   again  in   the   epilogue   to    The    Tragedy   of  Pompey   the 
Great : 

And  all  their  passionate  hearts  are  dust, 
And  dust  the  great  idea  that  burned, 

In  various  flames  of  love  and  lust, 
Till  the  world's  brain  was  turned. 

But  his  complete  innocence  from  mental  langour,  above  all 
the  brilliant  verve  with  which  he  tells  his  tales — these  are 
what  make  him  so  refreshing,  as  refreshing  as  a  breeze  from 
the  sea.  These  are  what  chiefly  account  for  the  thrill  which 
is  known,  when  opening  any  new  book  from  his  pen. 


AWOI  NO  UYE:  A  PLAY  BY  UJINOBU 

By  EZRA  POUND 
INTRODUCTION 

The  rough  draft  of  this  play  by  Fenollosa  and  Hirata 
presents  various  difficulties.  The  play  is  one  of  the  most 
profound  of  all  the  psychological  Noh,  and  with  the  text 
before  them  even  Japanese  skilled  in  the  art  are  diffident  of 
insisting  on  the  precise  interpretation  of  certain  passages.  I 
wish  to  say  quite  simply  that  if  I  go  wrong  I  shall  be  very 
grateful  for  correction  from  any  scholar  capable  of  providing 
it.  In  certain  places  it  is  necessary  for  me  to  choose  one 
meaning  or  another.  The  poetry  of  the  longer  passages  is,  I 
think,  substantially  correct  in  our  rendering,  and  certainly 
worth  presenting  even  if  the  rest  of  the  play  were  sheer  chaos. 

The  story,  as  I  understand  it,  is  that  the  "Court  Lady 
Awoi"  (Flower-of-the-East)  is  jealous  of  the  other  and  later 
co-wives  of  Genji.  This  jealousy  reaches  its  climax  and 
she  goes  off  her  head  with  it  when  her  carriage  is  overturned 
and  broken  at  the  Kami  festival.  The  play  opens  with  the 
death-bed  of  Awoi,  and  in  Mrs.  Fenollosa' s  diary  I  find  the 
statement  that  ''Awoi,  her  struggles,  sickness,  and  death  are 
represented  by  a  red,  flowered  kimono,  folded  once  length 
wise  and  laid  at  the  front  edge  of  the  stage. ' ' 

The  objective  aftion  is  confined  to  the  apparitions  and 
exorcists.  The  demon  of  jealousy,  tormenting  Awoi,  first 
appears  in  the  form  of  the  Princess  Rakujo,  then  with  the 
progress  and  success  of  the  exorcism  the  jealous  quintessence 
is  driven  out  of  this  personal  ghost  and  appears  in  its  own 
truly  demonic  ("henya")  form, — "That  awful  face  with  its 
golden  eyes  and  horns  revealed."  The  exorcist  Miko  is 
powerless  against  this  demon,  but  the  yamabushi  exorcists 
"advancing  against  it  making  a  grinding  noise  with  the  beads 
of  their  rosaries  and  striking  against  it"  finally  drive  it  away. 


10        THE  (QUARTERLY  NOTEBOOK 

The  ambiguities  of  certain  early  parts  of  the  play  seem 
mainly  due  to  the  fact  that  the  "Princess  Rokujo,"  the  con 
crete  figure  on  the  stage,  is  a  phantom  or  image  of  Awoi-no- 
Uye's  own  jealousy.  That  is  to  say,  Awoi  is  tormented  by 
her  own  passion,  and  this  passion  obsesses  her  first  in  the  form 
of  a  personal  apparition  of  Rokujo,  then  in  demonic  form. 

This  play  was  written  centuries  before  Ibsen  declared  that 
life  is  a  "contest  with  the  phantoms  of  the  mind."  The 
difficulties  of  the  translator  have  lain  in  separating  what  belongs 
to  Awoi  herself  from  the  things  belonging  to  the  ghost  of 
Rokujo,  very  much  as  modern  psychologists  might  have 
difficulty  in  detaching  the  personality  or  memories  of  an 
obsessed  person  from  the  personal  memories  of  the  obsession. 
Baldly:  an  obsessed  person  thinks  he  is  Napoleon;  an  image 
of  his  own  thought  would  be  confused  with  scraps  relating 
perhaps  to  St.  Helena,  Corsica,  and  Waterloo. 

The  second  confusion  is  the  relation  of  the  two  apparitions. 
It  seems  difficult  to  make  it  clear  that  the  "henya"  has  been 
cast  out  of  the  ghostly  personality,  and  that  it  had  been,  in  a 
way,  the  motive  force  in  the  ghost*  s  actions.  And  again  we 
cannot  be  too  clear  that  the  ghost  is  not  actually  a  separate 
soul,  but  only  a  manifestation  made  possible  through  Awoi 
and  her  passion  of  jealousy.  At  least  with  this  interpretation 
the  play  seems  quite  coherent  and  lucid. 

Rokujo  or  Awoi,  whichever  we  choose  to  consider  her, 
comes  out  of  hell-gate  in  a  chariot  "because  people  of  her  rank 
are  always  accustomed  to  go  about  in  chariots.  When  they, 
or  their  ghosts,  think  of  motion,  they  think  of  going  in  a 
chariot  y  therefore  they  take  that  form."  There  would  be 
a  model  chariot  shown  somewhere  at  the  back  of  the  stage. 

The  ambiguity  of  the  apparition's  opening  line  is,  possibly, 
to  arouse  the  curiosity  of  the  audience.  There  will  be  an 
air  of  mystery  and  they  will  not  know  whether  it  is  to  be  the 
chariot  associated  with  Genji's  liaison  with  Yugawo,  the 


AWOI  NO  UYE:  A  PLAY  BY  UJINOBU  11 

beautiful  heroine  of  the  play  "Hajitomi,"  or  whether  it  is 
the  symbolic  chariot  drawn  by  a  sheep,  a  deer,  and  an  ox. 
But  I  think  we  are  nearer  the  mark  if  we  take  Rokujo 
enigmatic  line  "I  am  come  in  three  chariots"  to  mean  that 
the  formed  idea  of  a  chariot  is  derived  from  these  events  and 
from  the  mishap  to  Awoi's  own  chariot,  all  of  which  have 
combined  and  helped  the  spirit  world  to  manifest  itself  con 
cretely.  Western  students  of  ghostly  folklore  would  tell  you 
that  the  world  of  spirits  is  fluid  and  drifts  about  seeking  shape. 
I  do  not  wish  to  dogmatize  on  these  points. 

The  Fenollosa-Hirata  draft  calls  the  manifest  spirit  "The 
Princess  Rokujo,"  and  she  attacks  Awoi  (represented  by  the 
folded  kimono).  Other  texts  seem  to  call  this  manifestation 
"Awoi-no-Uye,"  i.e.,  her  mind  or  troubled  spirit,  and  this 
spirit  attacks  her  body.  It  will  be  perhaps  simpler  for  the 
reader  if  I  mark  her  speechs  simply  "Apparition,"  and  those 
of  the  second  form  ' '  Henya. ' ' 

I  do  not  know  whether  I  can  make  the  matter  more  plain 
or  summarize  it  other  than  by  saying  that  the  whole  play  is  a 
dramatization,  or  externalization,  of  Awoi's  jealousy.  The  pas 
sion  makes  her  subject  to  the  demon-possession.  The  demon 
first  comes  in  a  disguised  and  beautiful  form.  The  prayer  of 
the  exorcist  forces  him  first  to  appear  in  his  true  shape,  and 
then  to  retreat. 

But  the  "disguised  and  beautiful  form"  is  not  a  mere 
abstract  sheet  of  matter.  It  is  a  sort  of  personal  or  living 
mask,  having  a  ghost  life  of  its  own;  it  is  at  once  a  shell  of 
the  princess,  and  a  form,  which  is  strengthened  or  made  more 
palpable  by  the  passion  of  Awoi. 

Japanese  art  amounts  to  very  little  if  the  spectator  expects 
to  have  things  trepanned  into  him,  but  it  is  both  profound 
and  vigorous  if  the  spectator  will  allow  his  faculties  to  act. 


12  THE  QUARTERLY  NOTEBOOK 

AWOJ  NO   UTE 

Scene  in  Kioto. 

Daijin.  I  am  a  subject  in  the  service  of  the  Blessed 
Emperor  Shujakuin.  They  have  called  in  the  priests  and  the 
high-priests  for  the  sickness  of  Awoi-no-Uye  of  the  house  of 
Sadaijin.  They  prayed  but  the  gods  give  no  sign.  I  am 
sent  to  Miko  the  wise  to  bid  him  pray  to  the  spirits.  Miko, 
will  you  pray  to  the  earth? 

Miko. 

Tenshojo,  chuhojo, 
NaigesAojo,  Rakkonshojo. 

Earth,  pure  earth, 

Wither,  by  the  sixteen  roots 

(Wither  this  evil)! 

Apparition.  It  may  be,  it  may  be,  I  come  from  the  gate 
of  hell  in  three  coaches.  I  am  sorry  for  Yugawo,  and  the 
carriage  with  broken  wheels.  And  the  world  is  plowed  with 
sorrow  as  a  field  is  furrowed  with  oxen.  Man's  life  is  a 
wheel  on  the  axle,  there  is  no  turn  whereby  to  escape.  His 
hold  is  light  as  dew  on  the  Basho  leaf.  It  seems  that  the  last 
spring's  blossoms  are  only  a  dream  in  the  mind.  And  we 
fools  take  it  all,  take  it  all  as  a  matter  of  course.  Oh,  I  am 
grown  envious  from  sorrow.  I  come  to  seek  'consolation. 
(Singing^  Though  I  lie  all  night  hid  for  shame  hi  the  secret 
carriage  looking  at  the  moon  for  sorrow,  yet  I  would  not  be 
seen  by  the  moon. 

Where  Miko  draws  the  magical  bow, 
I  would  go  to  set  my  sorrow  aloud. 

{Speaking)  Where  does  that  sound  of  playing  come  from? 
It  is  the  sound  of  the  bow  of  Adzusa ! 

Miko.  Though  I  went  to  the  door  of  the  square  building, 
Adzumaya  .... 

Apparition you  thought  no  one  came  to  knock. 


AWOI  NO  UYE:  A  PLAY  BY  UJINOBU  13 

Miko.  How  strange!  It  is  a  lady  of  high  rank  whom  I 
do  not  know.  She  comes  in  a  broken  carriage,  a  green  wife 
clings  to  the  shaft.  She  weeps.  Is  it  .  .  .  . 

Daijin.  Yes,  I  think  I  know  who  it  is.  (To  the  ap 
parition^  I  ask  you  to  tell  me  your  name. 

Apparition.  In  the  world  of  the  swift-moving  lightning  I 
have  no  servant  or  envoi,  neither  am  I  consumed  with  self- 
pity.  I  came  aimlessly  hither,  drawn  only  by  the  sound  of 
the  bow.  Who  do  you  think  I  am?  I  am  the  spirit  of  the 
Princess  Rokujo,  and  when  I  was  still  in  the  world,  spring 
was  there  with  me.  I  feasted  upon  the  cloud  with  the 
Sennin,1  they  shared  in  my  feast  of  flowers.  And  on  the 
Evening-of- Maple-leaves  I  had  the  moon  for  a  mirror.  I 
was  drunk  with  colour  and  perfume.  And  for  all  my  gay 
flare  at  that  time  I  am  now  like  a  shut  Morning-glory, 
awaiting  the  sunshine.  And  now  I  am  come  for  a  whim,  I 
am  come  uncounting  the  hour,  seizing  upon  no  set  moment. 
I  would  set  my  sorrow  aside.  Let  someone  else  bear  it 
awhile. 

Chorus.  Love  turns  back  toward  the  lover,  unkindness 
brings  evil  return.  It  is  for  no  good  deed  or  good  purpose 
that  you  bring  back  a  sorrow  among  us,  our  sorrows  mount 
up  without  end. 

Apparition.  The  woman  is  hateful!  I  cannot  keep  back 
my  blows.  (She  strikes.} 

Miko.  No.  You  are  a  princess  of  Rokujo!  How  can 
you  do  such  things?  Give  over.  Give  over. 

Apparition.  I  cannot.  However  much  you  might  pray. 
(Reflectively,  as  if  detached  from  her  attion,  and  describing 
it}  So  she  went  toward  the  pillow,  and  struck.  Struck. 

Miko.      Then  standing  up  ...  * 

Apparition.      This  hate  is  only  repayment. 


Spirits  not  unlike  the  Irish  "Sidhe." 


14  THE   QJUARTERLY  NOTEBOOK 

Miko.     The  flame  of  jealousy  .... 

Apparition will  turn  on  one's  own  hand  and 

burn. 

Miko.      Do  you  not  know? 

Apparition.      Know  !     This  is  a  just  revenge. 

Chorus. 

Hateful,  heart  full  of  hate, 

Though  you  are  full  of  tears 

Because  of  others'  dark  hatred, 

Your  love  for  Genji 

Will  not  be  struck  out 

Like  a  fire- fly's  flash  in  the  dark. 

Apparition.      I,  like  a  bush  .... 
Chorus. 

....  am  a  body  that  has  no  root. 
I  fade  as  dew  from  the  leaf, 
Partly  for  that  cause,  I  hate  her, 
My  love  cannot  be  restored  .... 
Not  even  in  a  dream. 

It  is  a  gleam  cast  up  from  the  past.  I  am  full  of  longing.  I 
would  be  off  in  the  secret  coach,  and  crush  her  shade  with  me. 

Daijin.  Help.  Awoi-no-Uye  is  sinking.  Can  you  find 
Kohijiri  of  Tokokawa  ? 

Kiogen.     I  will  call  him.      I  call  him. 

Waki  (Kohijiri}.  Do  you  call  me  to  a  fit  place  for 
prayer?  To  the  window  of  the  nine  wisdoms;  to  the  cushion 
of  the  ten  ranks,  to  a  place  full  of  holy  waters;  and  where 
there  is  a  clear  moon? 

Kiogen.     Yes,  yes. 

Waki.  How  should  I  know  ?  I  do  not  go  about  in  the 
world.  You  come  from  the  Daijin.  Wait.  I  am  ready. 
I  will  come.  (He  crosses  the  stage  or  bridge.) 

Daijin.      I  thank  you  for  coming. 

Waki.      Where  is  the  patient? 

Daijin.      She  is  there  on  that  bed. 


AWOI  NO  UYE:   A  PLAY  BY  UJINOBU  15 

Waki.      I  will  begin  the  exorcism  at  once. 

Daijin.      I  thank  you.      Please  do  so. 

Waki  (^beginning  the  ritual}.  Then  Gioja  called  upon 
En  No  Giojo,  and  he  hung  about  his  shoulders  a  cloak  that 
had  swept  the  dew  of  the  seven  jewels  in  climbing  the  peaks 
of  Tai  and  of  Kori  in  Uoshine.  He  wore  the  cassock  of 
forbearance  to  keep  out  unholy  things.  He  took  the  beads 
of  red  wood,  the  square  beads  with  hard  corners,  and  whirling 
and  striking,  said  prayer.  But  one  prayer. 

Namaku,  Samanda,  Basarada. 

(During  this  speech  the  ll  Apparition  "  has  disappeared.  That 
is,  the  first  "Shite,"  the  "Princess  of  Rokujo."  Her  costume 
'was  "  The  under  kimono  black  satin,  tight  from  the  knees  down, 
embroidered  ivith  small,  irregular,  infrequent  circles  of  flowers; 
the  upper  part,  stiff  gold  brocade,  just  shot  through  <witb 
purples,  greens,  and  reds. ' ' ) 

(The  Henya  has  come.  on.  Clothed  in  a  scarlet  hakama,  white 
upper  dress,  and  ' '  The  terrible  mask  with  golden  eyes. ' '  She 
has  held  a  'white  scarf  over  her  bead.  She  looks  up.  Here 
follows  the  great  dance  climax  of  the  play.) 

Henya  (threatening}.  O,  Gioja,  turn  back!  Turnback, 
or  you  rue  it. 

Waki.  Let  whatever  evil  spirit  is  here  bow  before  Gioja, 
and  know  that  Gioja  will  drive  it  out.  (He  continues  whirl 
ing  the  rosary.} 

Chorus  (invoking  the  powerful  good  spirits}.  On  the 
East  stand  Gosanzu  Miowo. 

Henya  (opposing  other  great  spirits}.  On  the  South  stand 
Gundari  Yasha. 

Chorus.     On  the  West  stand  Dai  Uaka  Miowo. 

Henya.      On  the  North  stand  Kongo.    .  .    . 

Chorus Yasha  Miowo. 

Henya.      In  the  middle  Dai  Sai  .    .    .   . 


16  THE  QUARTERLY  NOTEBOOK. 

Chorus.  Tudo  Miowo 

Namaku  Samanda  Basarada! 
Senda  Wakaroshara  Sowataya 
Wun  tarata  Kamman, 
Choga  Sessha  Tokudai  Chiye 
Chiga  Shinja  Sokushin  Johutsu. 

Henya  (overcome  by  the  exorcism}.  O,  terrible  names  of 
the  spirits.  This  is  my  last  time.  I  cannot  return  here  again. 

Chorus.  By  hearing  the  scripture  the  evil  spirit  is  melted. 
Bosatsu  came  hither,  his  face  was  full  of  forbearance  and  pity. 
Pity  has  melted  her  heart,  and  she  has  gone  into  Buddha. 
Thanksgiving. 


THE  MAN  WHO  SAVED  STEVENSON 

By  N.  TOURNEUR 

The  derelict  old  tradesman,  who  once  kept  a  tiny,  shabby 
restaurant  in  Pine  Street,  Monterey,  appears  to  have  been 
overlooked  by  the  majority  of  R.  L.  S.  admirers.  Yet,  but 
for  him,  it  is  highly  probable  that  Tusitala  would  not  have 
been,  for  Simoneau  is  the  man  who  saved  Stevenson.  That 
R.  L.  himself  never  forgot  the  debt  he  owed  is  on  evidence 
in  certain  of  his  letters  to  the  Frenchman:  "From  the 
bottom  of  my  heart,  dear  and  kind  old  man,  I  hold  your 

good  memory  very  close,  and  I  will  guard  it  till  death 

If  there  was  one  man  who  was  good  to  me,  that  man  was 
Jules  Simoneau"  —  eating-house  keeper. 

Jules  Simoneau,  "a  jolly  old  Frenchman/'  as  Stevenson 
describes  him,  * '  the  stranded  fifty-eight-year-old  wreck  of  a 
good-hearted,  dissipated  and  once  wealthy  Nantais  trades 
man,"  had  chanced  on  the  writer,  while  the  latter  in  1879 
was  at  Monterey,  ill  and  lonely,  and  hopelessly  confined  to 
his  bed.  Moneyless,  he  was  also  at  the  point  of  starvation. 
But  forthwith  and  insistently  Simoneau  devoted  himself  and 
his  Mexican  wife  to  the  sick  Scotsman,  nursing  him  tenderly 
in  his  spare  minutes,  and  daily  bringing  him  nourishment  of 
the  best  and  choicest  of  his  bill  of  fare. 

When  Stevenson  was  able  to  crawl  once  more  into  the 
golden  sunshine  of  the  somnolent  then  Mexican  town,  and 
trail  along  the  neglected  streets  with  their  adobe  houses  and 
all  the  picturesque  lazy  life  about  the  saloons,  he  became, 
naturally,  a  frequenter  of  Simoneau' s,  where  he  was  ever 
welcome  like  other  fellow  Bohemians,  for  a  meal,  a  talk,  a 
game  of  chess,  or  other  pleasant  amenity  of  friendship. 

Says  R.  L. :  "  Of  all  my  private  collection  of  remembered 
inns  and  restaurants — and  I  believe  it,  other  things  being 
equal,  to  be  unrivalled  —  one  particular  house  of  entertain- 


18  THE   QJJARTERLY  NOTEBOOK 

ment  stands  forth  alone To  the  front  it  was  part 

barber's  shop,  part  bar;  to  the  back  there  was  a  kitchen  and 
a  salle  a  manger.  The  intending  diner  found  himself  in  a 
little,  chill,  bare,  adobe  room,  furnished  with  chairs  and 
tables,  and  adorned  with  some  oil  sketches  roughly  brushed 
on  the  wall  in  the  manner  of  Barbizon  and  Cernay.  The 
table,  at  whatever  hour  you  entered,  was  always  laid  with  a 
not  spotless  napkin,  and  by  way  of  epergne,  with  a  dish  of 
green  peppers  and  tomatoes,  pleasing  alike  to  eye  and  palate." 

But  of  the  kind  and  generous  host,  to  whom  it  mattered 
but  little  whether  the  son  of  genius  had  money  or  not  to  pay 
his  shot,  the  writer  has  left  no  pen-portrait.  By  journalistic 
hands  of  a  much  later  decade,  that  has  been  delineated,  but 
after  age  and  vicissitudes  had  left  their  mark  on  kind  and 
amiable  Simoneau.  Yet  even  then  his  smiling  wrinkled  face 
and  beetling  brows,  the  shaggy  eyebrows  bent  above  the  mild 
and  sympathetic  blue  eyes,  the  large,  shapely  nose,  and  the 
refined  and  mobile  mouth  tell  enough  of  the  Samaritan  whose 
ministrations  relieved  R.L.  in  illness  and  want. 

Stevenson  and  Simoneau  came  in  contact  with  each  other 
only  for  about  four  months,  but  thereby  a  lifelong  friendship 
was  cemented.  In  the  years  ensuing,  letters  passed  between 
them,  and  copies  of  the  novelist's  works  found  their  way  to 
Pine  Street,  one  after  the  other,  as  they  appeared,  nearly  all 
of  them  inscribed  by  the  author,  "To  mon  cher  and  bon  ami 
Simoneau."  These  subsequently  were  eagerly  sought  after 
by  collectors,  but,  when  asked  to  sell,  Jules  would  often  draw 
forth  The  Strange  Case  of  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde,  and 
silently  point  to  the  fly-leaf,  whereon:  "But  the  case  of 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson  and  Jules  Simoneau,  if  one  forgot  the 
other,  would  be  stranger  still." 

Some  years  ago,  when  Simoneau  —  who  had  fallen  on  bad 
times,  and  was  no  longer  strong  enough  to  stand  in  the  streets 
and  peddle  tamales  (cakes  of  maize,  olives,  minced  meat,  and 


THE  MAN  WHO  SAVED  STEVENSON      ^  19 

peppers,  wrapped  in  the  husks  of  Indian  corn) — had  many 
offers  for  his  set  of  Stevenson's  works  —  one  individual 
tempting  him  with  two  thousand  dollars,  another  with  two 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars,  for  the  pamphlet  dealing  with  Father 
Damien  —  he  always  shook  his  head,  and  repeated  that  the 
books  were  not  for  sale  at  any  price.  Though,  later  on, 
poverty  gripped  his  small  household,  the  collection  of  books 
in  the  bamboo  bookcase  by  the  parlour  window  remained 
unsold.  One  wonders  what  happened  to  the  precious 
volumes  on  the  death  of  Jules,  who  was  stricken  by  the 
decease  of  his  wife  early  in  1908,  and  a  few  months  later 
followed,  at  the  age  of  eighty-eight. 

His  restaurant,  where,  as  R.  L.  writes,  "you  would  hear 
Simoneau  all  about  the  kitchen  and  rattling  the  dishes,"  and 
the  lonely  Scotsman  found  brightness  and  cheer  in  solitari 
ness,  ill-health,  and  penury,  was  burned  in  the  holocaust 
overtaking  Monterey  in  1906. 


NOTES 

Mr.  Campbell  Dodgson,  of  the  British  Museum,  has  asked 
The  Quarterly  Notebook  to  state  that  he  is  endeavouring  to 
develop,  in  the  Museum's  collection  of  prints,  a  series  of 
bookplates  by  well-known  engravers,  kept  as  groups  under 
the  engravers'  names.  Mr.  Dodgson  will  be  glad  to  hear 
from  bookplate  owners  willing  to  enrich  the  Museum's  col 
lection  with  prints  of  their  own  bookplates  or  with  any  dupli 
cates  they  may  have. 

Mr.  Wm.  McArthur,  of  79  Talbot  Street,  Dublin,  Hon 
orary  Local  Secretary  for  the  Society  of  Genealogists,  will  be 
grateful  for  information  concerning  books  of  fiction  published 
in  America  but  with  scenes  laid  in  Ireland.  The  data  is  de 
sired  for  a  forthcoming  publication. 


CORRESPONDENCE 

WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR,  ELIZA  LYNN  LINTON, 
AND  JULIA  LANDOR 

To  the  Editor  of  The  Quarterly  Notebook. 

SIR: — In  The  Yale  Review  for  January,  1916,  Beulah  B.  Amram  writes 
an  essay  on  Swinburne  and  Carducci  that  is  above  reproach,  except  for  two 
errors.  One  is  the  common  mistake  of  calling  Swinburne  a  classicist, 
whereas,  though  a  Grecian,  no  one  was  more  a  romanticist  than  he.  The 
other  is  perhaps  the  more  pardonable  one, — except  among  "specialists," — 
of  referring  to  Mrs.  Lynn  Lyndon  (the  name  should  be  Lynn  Linton)  as 
the  daughter  of  Walter  Savage  Landor. 

Swinburne  prefaced  his  Song  for  the  Centenary  of  Walter  Savage  Landor 
(Studies  in  Song,  1880)  with  a  Dedication  to  Mrs.  Lynn  Linton.  The 
first  half  of  the  poem  reads: 

Daughter  in  spirit  elect  and  consecrate 

By  love  and  reverence  of  the  Olympian  sire 
Whom  I  too  loved  and  worshipped,  seeing  so  great, 

And  found  so  gracious  toward  my  long  desire 
To  bid  that  love  in  song  before  his  gate 

Sound,  and  my  lute  be  loyal  to  his  lyre. 
To  none  save  one  it  now  may  dedicate 

Song's  new  burnt-offering  on  a  century's  pyre. 

Mrs.  Lynn  Linton,  then,  was  only  daughter  in  spirit  to  Swinburne's  Olym 
pian  sire. 

The  eulogy  of  Landor  that  undoubtedly  called  forth  Swinburne's  pane 
gyric,  namely  E.  Lynn  Linton' s  Reminiscences  of  Walter  Savage  Landor 
in  FraseSs  Magazine  for  1870,  is  one  of  the  triumphs  of  appreciations  in 
English.  I  can  only  think  of  Colvin  on  Stevenson,  Symons  on  Dowson, 
or  Le  Gallienne  on  Meredith  to  compare  with  it.  So  ardent  a  defence  of 
the  passionate  old  man  deserves  wide  reading,  and  excuses  quotation.  "For 
twelve  years  Mr.  Landor  held  with  me  the  place  of  a  father,"  says  she, 
"ever  indulgent,  kind  and  generous,  I  being  at  all  times  like  his  loving  and 
dutiful  child.  Hence  I  am  better  qualified  to  speak  of  him  personally  than 
any  other  of  his  literary  friends."  And  later,  "I  stayed  with  him  long 
and  often,  and  I  never  had  one  moment's  coolness  with  him;  never  the 
faintest  shadow  of  misunderstanding  or  displeasure.  I  was  afraid  of  him, 
granted;  as  was  befitting  one  standing  in  the  relation  of  daughter  to  a  father 
so  infinitely  superior  to  herself.  I  loved  him  then,  and  I  love  his  memory 


CORRESPONDENCE  21 

now,  as  that  of  a  dear  and  honoured  father,  and  I  am  not  ashamed  to  con 
fess  my  awe  and  fear."  And  again,  "  For  twelve,  long,  dear  years,  we  were 
father  and  daughter;  we  never  called  each  other  anything  else;  he  never 
signed  himself  to  me,  or  wrote  to  me,  as  anything  else;  and  in  the  last  sad 
clouded  days  of  his  life,  had  not  the  circumstances  of  my  own  life  been  so 
changed  as  to  render  it  impossible,  I  would  have  gone  with  him  to  Italy, 
and  I  would  not  have  left  him  again  while  he  lived." 

That  Landor  was  signally  appreciative  of  the  devotion  of  his  foster-daughter 
appears  from  Forster's  statement  that  Landor  replaced  a  dedication  to  his 
Last  Fruit  Off  an  Old  Tree  to  that  strange  man  of  genius  whom  Landor 
admired  and  Forster  disliked, — Thomas  Lovell  Beddoes, — by  one  to  Mrs. 
Lynn  Linton.  Stephen  Wheeler,  again,  notes  in  his  Letters  and  Unpub 
lished  Writings  of  Walter  Savage  Landor  that  Landor  wished  a  copy  of 
his  Letters  af  a  Canadian  sent  to  Monckton  Milnes,  Kenneth  Mackenzie, 
and  Mrs.  Linton.  Verses  to  her  as  the  author  of  Amymone,  a  Romance  of 
Pericles,  were  published  by  Landor  in  the  Examiner  of  July  22,  1 847.* 
Finally,  in  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Graves-Sawle,2  he  says  of  the  "good  Luisina," 
granddaughter  of  "lanthe,"  and  of  Eliza  Lynn,  who  came  to  see  him  on 
Saturday,  "What  a  charm  it  is  even  at  the  close  of  life  to  be  cared  for  by 
the  beautiful  and  gentle,  and  to  see  them  come  out  from  the  warm  sun 
shine  and  the  sweet  flowers  toward  us  in  the  chilliness  of  our  resting  place. 
This  is  charity,  the  charity  of  the  Graces." 

From  such  passages,  the  student  of  Mrs.  Lynn  Linton,  Her  Life,  Letters 
and  Opinions,  as  George  Somers  Layard  calls  his  book  about  her,  sees  that 
as  the  foremost  opponent  of  the  cruder  aspects  of  Women's  Rights,  Mrs. 
Linton,  with  her  ideal  of  the  "old-fashioned  girl,"  practiced  the  devotion 
she  preached.  Meredith  criticized  her  books  as  "very  sour  in  tendency, 
hard  in  style,  forced,  and  exemplifying  the  author's  abhorrence  of  the 
emancipation  of  young  females  from  their  ancient  rule."  Yet  her  Girl  of 
the  Period,  in  the  Saturday  Review  of  March  14,  1869,  is  almost  as  fair 
a  reading  of  the  Sex  from  one  point  of  view  in  her  day  and  ours  as  Mere 
dith's  more  searching  analyses  from  another.  In  her  married  life,  unluckily 
for  her  theories,  Mrs.  Linton  was  unhappy;  but  her  heart  continued  to  go 
out  with  undiminished  affe&ion  to  Landor.  She  not  only  watched  over 
him  with  jealous  care  while  he  lived,  but  she  took  Forster's  life  of  him  to 
task  when  he  was  dead.  "  With  all  his  passion,  ferocity,  and  coarseness 
when  roused,"  she  wrote  in  the  North  British  Review  of  1869,  "there 


1  Stephen  Wheeler:  Letters  of  Walter  Savage  Landor,  Private  and 
Public,  pp.  172,  173. 

2B.  W.  Matz:  George  Meredith  as  Publishers  Reader,  Fortnightly  Re 
view,  N.  S.,  86286. 


22        THE  (QUARTERLY  NOTEBOOK 

was  an  amount  of  purity  or  feeling  in  him  unequalled,  and  a  capacity  for 
the  most  refined  and  idyllic  tenderness  as  great  as  was  his  capacity  for  anger, 
pride  and  hatred.  Mr.  Forster  makes  but  little  account  of  this." 

Finally,  we  should  not  forget  that  in  addition  to  the  fatherly  regard  he 
felt  for  Rose  Paynter,  Miss  Kate  Field  and  Eliza  Lynn  Linton,  Landor  had 
a  daughter  of  his  own,  Julia  Elizabeth  Savage  Landor.  His  references  to 
her  in  his  letters  to  Rose  Paynter  are  affectionate  and  touching.  After  the 
break  with  his  wife  he  saw  little  of  his  children.  In  1843,  however,  Julia 
and  her  brother  Walter  were  to  visit  him  at  Bath.  In  expectation  of  their 
coming  Landor  wrote  the  lines  to  his  daughter  that  appeared  in  Blackivood" s 
Magazine,  March,  1843: 

By  that  dejefted  city,  Arno  runs, 

Where  Ugolino  claspt  his  famisht  sons. 

There  wert  thou  born,  my  Julia!    there  thine  eyes 

Return'd  as  bright  a  blue  to  vernal  skies. 

And  thence,  my  little  wanderer!   when  the  Spring 

Advanced,  thee,  too,  the  Hours  on  silent  wing 

Brought,  while  anemonies  were  quivering  round, 

And  pointed  tulips  pierced  the  purple  ground, 

Where  stood  fair  Florence;  there  thy  voice  first  blest 

My  ear,  and  sank  like  balm  into  my  breast: 

For  many  griefs  had  wounded  it,  and  more 

Thy  little  hands  could  lighten  were  in  store. 

But  why  revert  to  griefs  ?     Thy  sculptur'd  brow 

Dispels  from  mine  its  darkest  cloud  even  now. 

What  then  the  bliss  to  see  again  thy  face, 

And  all  that  Rumour  has  announced  of  grace! 

I  urge,  with  fevered  breast,  the  four-month  day. 

O!  could  I  sleep  to  wake  again  in  May. 

His  Julia  came,  and  he  put  the  thought  of  losing  her  again  from  him. 
But  she  had  promised  to  be  away  only  six  months.  "  My  Julia  went  by 
the  steamer  on  Sunday,"  he  writes  to  Rose  Paynter,  1843.  "  The  weather 
was  very  boisterous.  I  rose  several  times  in  the  night  and  attempted  by 
putting  my  hand  out  of  the  window  to  ascertain  in  which  point  was  the 

wind My  dear  Julia   wished  not  only  to  be  with  me,  but  alone 

with  me  as  much  as  possible.  We  parted  in  unutterable  grief,  but  youth 
and  fresh  scenes  will  soon  assuage  all  hers.  That  is  enough. 

"Adieu,  dear  Rose." 

WM.  CHISLETT,  JR. 

Stanford  University,  California. 


CORRESPONDENCE  23 

GIFTS  TO  INSTITUTIONS 
To  the  Editor  of  The  Quarterly  Notebook. 

SIR: — One  of  the  most  enjoyable  pleasures  of  collecting  books,  engravings, 
bookplates,  autographs,  and  what  not,  is  to  share  your  acquisitions  and  dis 
coveries  with  another  man  of  similar  tastes,  either  by  showing  them  to  him 
in  your  library  or  by  presenting  them  to  him.  In  the  same  manner  it  is  a 
pleasure  to  present  books  and  other  literary  properties  to  public  libraries,  the 
pleasure  being  materially  enhanced  if  the  recipients  are  duly  grateful. 

There  are  few  men  who  will  neglect  to  thank  you  or  to  acknowledge, 
in  some  form  or  other,  the  gifts  bestowed  upon  them.  Some  institutions 
are,  however,  exceedingly  negligent  in  such  acknowledgment,  among  them 
several  libraries  in  this  country,  merely  thanking  you  with  a  postal  card  in 
the  most  perfunctory  way,  while  still  others  await  the  issue  of  an  annual 
report  to  thank  their  donors. 

On  the  other  hand,  small  gifts  to  the  leading  libraries  in  England  have 
been  acknowledged  with  engraved  forms,  bearing  additions  in  the  hand 
writing  of  officials  to  show  their  appreciation.  I  have  frequently  mentioned 
the  subject  to  officials  connected  with  the  institutions  here,  and  I  am  glad 
to  report  a  change  in  some  instances. 

Another  grievance  is  that  many  of  the  gifts  are  immediately  hidden  from 
public  gaze.  I  refer  especially  now  to  gifts  of  bookplates.  I  have  been 
the  donor,  to  many  libraries,  of  a  large  number  of  etchings  and  engravings 
in  the  form  of  bookplates  by  American  artists,  and  I  have  yet  to  hear  of 
their  being  placed  on  public  exhibition.  In  fact  I  have  been  told  that  it  is 
sometimes  difficult  to  obtain  permission  to  examine  bookplates  in  some 
institutions. 

The  primary  object  of  a  donor  of  bookplates  is  to  have  the  specimens 
exhibited  as  works  of  art,  and  our  institutions  will  do  well  to  see  that  the 
public  is  given  access  to  them  in  the  simplest  manner  possible. 

Truly  yours,  J.  M.  ANDREINI. 

29  West  75th  St.,  New  York,  April  5. 

"  GERMAN  PROPAGANDA  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES" 

To  the  Editor  of  The  Quarterly  Notebook. 

SIR: — Will  you  permit  me  to  bring  a  matter  of  much  moment  to  the  at 
tention  of  your  readers  ?  I  hope  you  will,  for  the  subject  seems  one  of 
superlative  importance. 

Every  citizen  of  the  United  States  should  have  his  attention  called  to  an 
article  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly  for  April,  1916,  entitled  "German  Pro- 


24  THE   QJJARTERLY  NOTEBOOK 

paganda  in  the  United  States,"  and  written  by  Mr.  Gustavus  Ohlinger. 
The  paper  clearly  exposes  the  pernicious  practices  resorted  to  by  various 
German-American  societies  to  bring  undue  influence  to  bear  on  the  govern 
ment  and  people  since  the  beginning  of  the  war.  It  further  reveals  almost 
unbelievable  efforts  on  the  part  of  the  various  German  organizations  in 
America  to  achieve  "nothing  less  than  the  complete  Germanizing  of  the 
United  States." 

In  the  light  of  Mr.  Ohlinger's  research,  the  proposal  is  by  no  means  as 
absurd  as  may  seem  at  first  glance.  It  should  be  the  duty  of  every  think 
ing  person  to  acquaint  himself  with  what  is  going  on  in  our  midst  through 
the  facts  set  forth  in  this  article.  I  say  u  facts"  advisably,  since  the  editors 
of  the  Atlantic  have  taken  the  pains  to  verify  them  and  to  quote  the  sources 
at  which  anyone  may  verify  them. 

It  is  to  be  hoped  that  this  wonderful  article  will  not  remain  buried  in  the 
pages  of  a  periodical,  but  that  it  will  be  reprinted  and  made  available  to  the 
large  public  that  it  so  deserves  to  reach.  Every  American  citizen  should 
know  precisely  what  The  National  German-American  Alliance  has  done 
and  is  trying  to  do.  I  beg  to  remain,  Faithfully  yours, 

ROBERT  H.  NISBET. 

Kansas  City,  Mo.,  April  3. 


THE   QUARTERLY  NOTEBOOK 

Edited  by  ALFRED  FOWLER.    Published  quarterly  by  The  Quarterly  Notebook, 
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butions  should  be  addressed  to  THE  EDITOR,  THE  QUARTERLY  NOTEBOOK. 
Subscription:   $1.00  per  year;  single  copies  25  cents. 

The  original  intention  of  presenting  Mr.  Blaikie- Murdoch's 
Homage  to  Watteau  in  our  initial  issue  has  been  relinquished 
in  favor  of  his  study  of  Mr.  John  Masefield,  of  more  timely 
interest.  The  paper  in  appreciation  of  Watteau  will  appear  in 
an  early  issue. 

The  present  issue  will  serve  to  show  the  general  lines  along 
which  The  Quarterly  Notebook  will  be  conduced.  The  ed 
itor  will  be  glad  to  consider  literary  contributions  by  interested 
readers,  and  suggestions  for  enlarging  the  publication's  field  of 
interest  will  also  be  welcome. 


The  LITTLE  REVIEW 

Literature  ::  Drama  ::  Music  ::  Art 
MARGARET  C.  ANDERSON 

EDITOR 


THE  LITTLE  REVIEW  is  a  mag 
azine  that  believes  in  Life  for  Art's 
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terested  in  Past,  Present,  and  Future,  but 
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azine  written  for  Intelligent  people  who 
can  feel;  whose  philosophy  is  Applied  An 
archism,  whose  policy  is  a  Will  to  Splen 
dor  of  Life,  and  whose  function  is — to 
express  itself. 


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HE  DRAMA  for  MAY 

offers  two  plays  by  Remy 
de  Gourmont,  whose  dra 
matic  work  has  never  been 

accessible  in  English.  The  translation  has  been 
made  by  the  celebrated  Imagist  poet,  RICHARD  AL 
DINGTON,  who  contributes  also  a  skillful  critique  of  de 
Gourmont's  work.  The  plays  are  printed  by  an  au 
thorization  given  a  few  weeks  before  the  playwright's 
death.  C.  Among  the  other  articles  is  one  by  ALEXAN 
DER  BAKSHY,  an  associate  of  the  Russian  producer, 
Meyerhold,  on  The  Cinematograph  as  Art.  In  this  the 
author  shows  that  the  great  field  open  to  the  "mov 
ies"  has  not  even  been  discovered  by  the  film  pro 
ducer  of  to-day.  C,  MR.  CHARLES  LEMMI  contributes 
a  brilliant  discussion  of  The  Italian  Stage  of  To-day, 
not  so  much  a  study  of  the  individual  plays  as  an  at 
tempt  to  analyse  and  explain  the  forces  at  work  in 
the  present-day  Italian  theatre.  C,  The  Hull  House 
Players,  an  organization  of  more  than  local  fame,  is 
the  subject  of  a  brief  history  by  its  founder  and  di 
rector,  LAURA  DAINTY  PELHAM.  C,  Many  other  articles 
on  current  problems  of  the  drama,  reviews  and  bibli 
ographies  completes  the  number. 

THE  DRAMA  QUARTERLY 

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(Two  dollars  to  members  of  the  Drama  League  of  America.) 


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